Angel of Skye (13 page)

After he’d discovered her with her latest conquest at Drummond Castle, Alec had wanted nothing more to do with Kathryn. So Lord Gray had tried to intervene on his daughter’s behalf. The betrothal agreement was nearly finalized, and he made sure they knew that the damage in breaking off the relationship at such a late date would be costly and extensive for everyone concerned—especially for Alec. Or so he thought.

But then the Macphersons—backed by the Campbells and Lord Huntly—had stood together, and the contract had crumbled to dust.

“Our parents obviously did not abide her company for long,” Ambrose suggested. “I am surprised that she would be so bold as to stop there at all.”

“Bold?” Alec asked, facing his brother across the table. “She will do anything that she thinks will profit her. I learned a great deal about her once my eyes were opened, and I know she has absolutely no conception of right or wrong.”

What was it that Fiona had said the night before? About learning from each other? About trust? That beautiful young woman was living in the shelter of a convent. How could she know about life in the real world? Indeed, he had been that naive once. He wished he could even now draw on her idealism. But it seemed to Alec that he was living in another world. Perhaps it was a world that Fiona could not even exist in—a world that included such creatures as Kathryn Gray. Fiona dwelled far above them, he thought, like an angel.

And yet, etched so clearly in his memory, the recollection of that final confrontation still smoldered within him. After Kathryn’s lover had scrambled out the high window to save his own hide, she had stood there, confronting him, as if nothing were amiss. She told him of her physical desires and how they had nothing to do with their marriage. With their union she would have his name, but she would accept no “chains.” She would be independent, and she would soar free as she pleased.

“I recommend you do the same,” she said, her voice and her eyes as cold as ice.

Their coming marriage would be an excellent move—politically—for both families, and she suggested that Alec accept it as such.

“What do you think she is hoping to gain by this little excursion of hers?” Ambrose asked, breaking in on Alec’s thoughts.

“Sympathy, perhaps. The hope of gaining allies among the parents and others who know me in the Highlands. She’s very good at playing the pathetic, misunderstood martyr when she wants to.”

“That would explain her next move to Kildalton,” Ambrose suggested.

“She’ll be in for a cool reception there, though. With Colin and Celia at Sterling, Lord Hugh Campbell and Agnes will not give her the time of the day.” There was some satisfaction in the thought of Kathryn being treated as she deserved. “But one thing is for sure, the slut is not accustomed to being dumped.”

That day Alec had walked out, disgusted and shaken by the hollowness of the life she envisioned. A life of deception. But his inner strength had soon burst to the surface. He never looked upon her again.

“I’ll tell you one thing. Because of her own web of false friends,” Ambrose added, “the outcome of her bad luck made for a noisy affair at court.”

“Court!” Alec spat with contempt. A place he had no desire ever to return to. “I was blind not seeing her cronies as the worthless parasites they are.”

“We all make mistakes, Alec,” Ambrose responded. “But look at the bright side. In the end you made some worthless parasites’ lives very miserable.”

“I just hope that was the end.” Alec paused, standing and looking over the pile of work that awaited him. “I would be happy if I never had to step foot in that court again.”

“Come, Alec, it is not really the court that is to blame,” Ambrose suggested. “At least there is something to do there—besides work!”

“Work?” the warlord exploded with a laugh, looking over at the younger man sitting comfortably in the chair. “What do you know about work? You have not yet done a good day’s work in your entire life, you lazy beast. One scar in one battle and you figure your future is secure. When I heard you telling Malcolm how you...”

“If you are going to slander me,” Ambrose cut in, his face the very picture of the tragically wounded, “I am not going to tell you what I have accomplished this morning.”

“You mean other than sleeping the morning away and lazing around?” he nearly laughed at the shocked look on the younger warrior’s face. After a pause, Alec sighed with comic gravity. “Very well, at least I know this should not take very long.”

“I think I may have learned of a way to get the MacDonald clan to work with us.”

Alec sat up again, his attention riveted on his brother’s now smiling face. Alec had seen that the time was right for Scotland to develop a new industry in the west. News of the riches of the New World had swept through a Europe that was bursting at the seams. But Alec knew that to explore and to develop these new lands, great new ships would be needed.

After arriving here, the new laird realized Skye offered opportunity for such a venture. The island had timber and pitch for hulls and masts, and stone for ballast. It was well situated on the west coast of Scotland, with a number of ideal inlets and coves to choose from for a shipyard. That was when he had asked Ambrose to join him. The younger Macpherson’s knowledge of ships and shipbuilding was well respected across the land. Ambrose brought the expertise that Alec was in search of.

The only thing Alec lacked was labor. The MacLeod clan had a tradition of fishing as well as farming, but there were simply not enough available workers.

Half of Skye, however, was populated with MacDonalds, an old and proud clan that had been subjugated by Torquil and his immediate predecessor. There were many available men, but when Alec had approached their ancient clan chief at Dunscaith Castle on the southern tip of Skye, MacDonald had liked the idea, telling him, though, that his clan would never work with either the MacLeods or their new mainland overlord. The people had lived too many years in fear of them just to come out and get involved in this venture. And even though the chief himself saw good in the new laird’s plans, he knew he would be ineffective in convincing his people. After all, he was no longer seen by the clan as either counselor or leader. So Alec’s efforts had been stymied, for the time being.

“How do we get the MacDonalds to work with us?” Alec asked, quite interested in Ambrose’s discovery.

“While I was lazing around this morning, riding up the coast and working with the fishermen, one of them mentioned a possibility we were unaware of.”

“Aye? What, Ambrose?” Alec fired at his brother, who was definitely taking his time.

Ambrose became serious, leaning on his elbows and looking directly at Alec. “There is an old priest on the island. His name is John. Father Jack, they all call him. He is a hermit, of sorts, but he lives not far from here. Inland, by the edge of the great forest.”

“Aye,” Alec responded, musing. “I believe I may have seen him on my way to hunt. The fields by the wood are wonderful for hawking. I have never been able to stop and speak to him.”

“The fishermen tell me he is the way to reach the people of both clans. He is a good man, they say. A man who is not impressed by either violence or wealth. They say he treats all God’s creatures the same. The clan folk listen to him...more than they do to their own chieftains.”

“Can he convince the islanders to work together?”

“It seems if anyone can, he’s the one to do it.”

“You just made my day quite productive, Ambrose.”

“What? Why do you say that?”

“Because I was just about to ride over to see this Father Jack.”

“You already knew about him?” Ambrose asked, surprised by his brother’s revelation.

“Aye. Of course. A good laird knows everything.”

“This is Ambrose you are talking to, Alec.”

“Very well,” Alec admitted. “He sent a message that he would like to talk with me on an urgent matter.”

“Why is the priest not coming here?” Ambrose asked. “Alec, part of being laird is having people come to you!”

“Ambrose, this is one laird who will go where he is needed.” Alec stood and called for Robert.

“I’ll go with you.”

“Then you’d better get off your buttocks, my hard-working little brother. I’m leaving now.”

“Why he is not coming today?” Malcolm asked Fiona. Alec’s squire had just left the warlord’s message with David, who brought word into the lesson room.

Fiona had kept Malcolm close to her all morning. She had hoped to see Lord Alec and explain her words of the night before. As tired as she had been last night, Fiona had lain in bed going over their discussion again and again. She had thought back over the words said and had tried to remember why and when he had taken her words wrongly. It was important to her to try to undo what had been said.

After all, she didn’t want Lord Macpherson to think her a wisecracking ingrate. Even if she had acted like one.

“Fiona, why?” the boy’s voice cut into the young woman’s thoughts.

“He is a busy man, Malcolm.”

As the words left her mouth, Fiona felt a chill spread rapidly through her body. She did not remember much about her past, about her life before the Priory. But she already knew that was partly by choice. Thinking back had always been painful. Her memories were filled with the rough cries of a woman, wind so strong that it seemed to bite into you, so intense that it forced your eyes closed. Then water. Cold, cold water. And being alone. That was all she remembered. That was all she allowed herself to remember.

“Do you think he will come tomorrow?” Malcolm pressed. “He promised me that if you agree to it, he will take me hawking. My own hawk, Fiona! Can you imagine? With the hawk on my arm and all, do you think I will look like him?”

Do I look like him? Do I look like him? Somehow these words sounded familiar to Fiona. She grew pale.

“Fiona, are you well?” Malcolm’s hand rested on her arm. His anxious brown eyes looked with concern into her pale, tired face.

“Aye, lad,” she answered, mustering a weak smile. “Shaking off the past is a tiring task.”

Fiona shifted the heavy satchel to her other shoulder and looked wearily at the threatening gray sky. She was getting close, for she had been skirting the edge of the wood for nearly a quarter of an hour, and she thought it would be good to have a roof over her head before the rain began in earnest. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the sky had taken on a dusky look. Only an occasional bird flitted from the treetops to the meadow that stretched out to her left. In a few moments the hermit’s cottage came into sight, and Fiona directed her steps to it as the first drops of the summer shower fell.

Hurrying around the corner of the building as she peered into the small window on the side, the young woman ran headlong into a tall, cloaked figure leading a charger.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, stumbling to the side as a hand reached out to stop her from falling.

“Steady, there,” the man responded, a hint of warning in his voice.

Fiona looked up into blue eyes that were surveying her closely. She pulled her arm away and stepped back.

“Excuse me, m’lord.” She looked up into the man’s hard face. Sand colored hair was plastered to his head. Suddenly her eyes fixed on his features. There was something familiar about him, but his unshaven face did not quite match the image that was floating somewhere in the recesses of her memory. She could not quite remember. As much as she wanted to, she simply could not.

“Do I know you?” Neil MacLeod asked shortly, looking carefully at the woman before him. A frown clouded the man’s eyes.

Fiona took another step back. Whoever he was, there was something about this man that sent a chill through her body. The rain was coming harder now.

“No,” she stammered. He was a MacLeod man; she knew from the tartan he wore. A warrior. But that was no help. She had spent her entire life avoiding his kind. Still, there was something in that face. She felt her tongue swell in her mouth. Fear seeped into her bones and spread through her body until it dominated her senses. Fiona stepped back. She wanted nothing to do with him.

“You are from around here, are you not?” he pressed. “Who are you? Speak up, lass.”

Fiona stood, momentarily frozen by a snatch of memory. She glanced down at the man’s hand, hanging limply at his side. Somewhere in her head she could hear a woman’s cry—the same cry that continued to haunt her dreams. Her glance darted again to his face, gleaming in the falling rain. His look was piercing, as if he, too, were trying to remember something.

“Well?” Alec’s voice growled as he suddenly appeared beside Fiona. His face a mask of steel, he turned toward the MacLeod warrior. “Well? I thought you were in a hurry to get back.”

Neil MacLeod shifted his glance under the other’s withering stare.

“Aye. That I am.”

Alec glanced over at the young woman beside him. She certainly did not look well to him. He had caught a glimpse of her as she passed the cottage window. Looking at her now, standing beside him in the falling rain, he thought she looked pale and tired and frightened. He grasped her arm, and as he did he felt her pull his hand tightly to her side.

With the pressure of Fiona’s arm, a sense of possessiveness swept through Alec. For the first time, he had a sense that she was communicating a need to him—and he instinctively responded. Pulling her toward him, the warlord leaned forward, partially shielding Fiona from Neil MacLeod with his body.

When Alec’s eyes snapped back to the warrior, MacLeod was gazing curiously at the laird’s protective grip on the young woman’s arm. Hastily averting his eyes, he reached back for the bridle of his charger.

“I was just taking my leave,” he said, nodding to Fiona with a last look as he led his gray horse past the two.

Fiona turned and watched him mount up and ride slowly away in the pouring rain. As MacLeod disappeared into murky distance, relief washed over Fiona. Now she could feel the laird’s closeness beside her, the muscular grip of his hand. And for the first time all day, she felt buoyant, almost exuberant.

With a sigh she turned back to Alec, but her look was greeted with an angry glare.